Thanks to Nita and the Hindu for that, and for its commendable stand on the Mullaperiyar issue, and thanks to day’s Hindu for ignoring this statement from a self-proclaimed SOB. (I already have one ongi at this dude after the smoking ban).  Mullaperiyar I believe should be the top-priority of all bloggers from Kerala.

You can read part of the facebook-email conversation I had with Nita below,

1. something basic first…why do u blog? what do u get out of it?

Here’s my post on this.. Why do I blog (Diaries link)

Blog for me is a very effective medium of asynchronous communication. Its good for me because I can say anything I want and unlike a direct conversation I dont have to necessarily listen to what the other person says. In conversations I find other people dumb and unimaginative, so I often prefer a one way conversation. You can say I should start a radio station then. But blogs are cost effective.

2.. unlike most blogs by most mallus u stuck to Kerala, specifically Tvm issues i.e. local content..why is that?y not something like say abt ur feelings on hugo chavez for want of a bettr example?

I try to get involved with the community I live in. But you can search Talkies, it will have everything from Bukowski to Chavez to Obama to Tharoor. But local content was important for me, because compared to many other cities I’ve been to – Trivandrum’s cultural scene is great and its not dumb like many other cities. Plus when there is a Mohanlal movie releasing and there is a credit crisis in Western Europe, I do show some editorial discretion.

3. what kind of response do u get? how do u weigh that in with follow ups that u may have? is it again local? or is it varied? whatkind of thrill do they get out of it?

I have gone on dates through my blog, its thats good. Some people do like me, others will. But there have been very rude responses as well, but I kinda like them. I often pickup fights and prove that I am not a statistic. Then I expect an amount of decorum in the blog when comments go above 20, its like its my blog and I dont ask for your credit card information – so be nice.

4. do u feel that ur blogs have made an impact…in at least making peoople aware?

To some extent, yes. Especially on the text book controversy and Tharoors election. But I would stop at awareness. I wish there were more fans who treat me like God, but that hasnt happened yet.

5. has it bot some change to tvm…or the way plp view tvm?

No. I dont try to sell Trivandrum. Seriously, the place is so good and I will live here forever. But I dont want to convert and bring people to Trivandrum. The Ulloor-Srikaryam road is already crowded.

P.S: Here’s to Maharashtra for ensuring the spectacular defeat of the Indian Right.

P.P.S: In other news, Vatican endorses Karl Marx

“so that is your dedication…hmm…nice”

She runs her hand over my chest, “let me feel your heart beat”
“hey its not beating”

Eyes makes a subtle to and fro, the classic confused look according to her

“can you check the other side”, Me

she smiles, the night is throbbing outside the glass window. Trains are destined to go slower, what could be the problem with this one, I wonder.

“will you feel my pulse then, please” , now my voice is tense

i feel the bony fingers on that vulnerable point of my wrist “yes, you have pulse”

Leaving a sigh of relief, I settle in, her revolting curls block my view of the neon night. Raven hair.

“oh my poor intellectual, seems Marquez has already taken your dedication”, smiles, “say something exclusive”

long silence, comfortable silences.

I sit up “you mean my passions are a quote”

“yes” ,matter of fact

what do I tell you then; that I need to climb on these big sentences to catch a glimpse of what you are, to make some sense of you, or easier I could dive into your tresses and forget me forever.

or just, that i need you to tell me that i exist, my heart still beats

“i think we are about to enter the Palghat pass”

“how do you know” she asks, opening the train door. She knows all about trains.

“because we are about to enter the Palghat pass” the kind winds of the cool night wrap us in the narrow corridor

“hmm”

“you are an idiot”, I’m feeling free

the Palghat pass stretches like a conduit, this is where the monsoon with all its spice laden air enters the arid lands of the living. i look to the right, knowing its foolish, for the city lights.

“I don’t think I’m an idiot”

“what if i agree that i am an idiot”, there was no Coimbatore anywhere around. Tamil wilderness receding.

“I’m not an idiot” she thought for a minute before confirming. She thinks before she speaks.

“where are we now; can you read those station names”, at the train door her hair is blowing in the cool wind

I said “think we are somewhere in between”, I stretch out into the night my hands gripping the door handles

I’m there. The balcony of night, hope’s threshold. She too. The night pregnant with a day, boy or girl? A day that will remind us that we can’t, a day that will evaporate every holding mist of love. However hard I grip her, however hard I sleep the day returns, the night’s kindness recedes. Immense kindness of the night, a reminding world that sleeps. I do not know which station we left behind, which one we are nearing. I think we are somewhere between essence and existence, between freedom and necessity. Essence, existence, freedom, necessity, ha nice names for stations.

“Feeling cold?”

“No” I remove my jacket, wrap her around that

“Oh you are Nirvana, who doesn’t feel anything”, smiles

“Is it too cold? we’ll get coffee at the next stop” I shut the train door, moves across to the wash basin

“It doesn’t matter”, looks at me “Nothing else matters”, only she can say that

I wash my face, looks at myself. Girl, I’m not the Buddha I used to be. If I am the Buddha, like the poet said yesterday, I am one of those broken buddhas of Gandhari’s country, I am one of those poor Tibetan buddhas in the cold Delhi winter of refugees, one of those helpless buddhas of Lanka who stand witness to bloodbaths, I’m a torn Buddha in love. See I know about so many places, I even learnt about the capital of Burkina Faso to reach you.

One deep kiss, entwined. Nothing else mattered, there were no Gods worth worrying about.

“Nothing else matters..or has a name, the world is made of air that waits…waits”, I improvised

Silence, why is he saying all this.

“I like it when you are quiet…like…”, I’m improvising again.

“my sweet, I often wonder why there are not many women who write about love, as much as men have….why there are no women who could help me articulate in words so beautiful…”

“i think a man needs words to dance around…the woman sits in the middle with all that warmth, as the meaning…”

“You…you and you only”, she said, my moment in time

entwined in one anguished knot, eyes closed, complete

I think a man needs words to dance around when he finally lights that fire, like he danced around offering flowers and coconuts in one ancient rhythm after an other, and you woman sit in the core, with all that humility knowing well that you are the meaning. Because I have only words to offer now. My words that rise from your direction, which limit their existence to your extremes, where fire and nectar and air all mean you. You know that some loner said this before me, but from where I stand, this is all I have now and I am parting with that. Smile.

So where do we start this year, yeah! Amrita‘s tag. Amrita thanks for tagging me, I owe you one (tag)

Another Greek Tragedy? Naah! Perhaps the best year of em all, I’ve lived offline, met some very beautiful people, some very beautiful people with some very broken hearts. Archer, let me tell you the secret of all secrets, I know you are sad because uncertainty is killing you, even this will pass, once your path is set you’ll be sad about belonging, or not belonging, the truth is this world is full of cloudy turbulence, but there are those tiny moments when it shows you a little sky and a little more light, that nectar within the posion, that sunbeam in the pond, that little sunshine on the rugged moon. Cling on to it, thats all that will remain, when the world remains and you pass.

It my blog man, my diary, I can write whatever I want.

courtesy: Dirty old man
“We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus!
That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t.
We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing”

Too many things happening, pruning new skills in office, there is a lot to write about, right now I’ll only say “I can see dead aliens” all around in office – double whammy huh! (I even have a cyborg in my next cubicle). Will write in detail later. After so much running around, was awarded “Extragalactic Man of Mystery Award” last night. Kudos! special thanks to all alien monsters who keep watch at night!

Yet another skill developed exclusively for office is putting espresso stories in mspaint. Take a look at this one. Its post modern grunge with a lil bit of bohemian, greenwichian and cubism scattered around.

Because this is a new form of art, I’ll explain the rules -
1. Must be in office (don’t have a job? Well get one then)
2. You select an espresso story and finish the drawing in 15 mins
3. Give respect to me

Btw, does all of your office machines lock down when you try to install Photoshop? sucks man!

Oh yeah, this drawing, its my third masterpiece, its called “When he woke up, the dinosaur was still there”

Gotta go! busy…and hey happy Halloween…wtf….gotta go..

Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!

Idiot’s guide to Zen living? At least I’m not reading Coelho. No don’t gimme that [I mean Coelho]

Before daybreak, the brothers and me set out east, towards the mountains on the National Highway. En route, as the climb begins and the ‘definitely male’ vehicle shifts to a lower gear, daybreaks. The baby Sun is right on my face, the mountain air is clear, so is every thought.You don’t have to do anything, the sun rises. It is a silent spectacle. The climb ahead is tough with the highway rising and falling, but for the moment, I decide, let the sun beat down upon my face. Thoughts clear, empty minds filled with light.

It was raining heavily in the valley where I work, the dark highway stretched ahead. The weather was plain sexy, light drizzle. There are two things which set us free on the highway, speed and music. I fed the engine and we roared up the road. Jim Morrison started singing,

The world seemed so unimportant inside the helmet. The bike’s powerful light stream lit the road around. Jim Morrison on Vocals, me too on Vocals. Another biker was coming down the road, he seemed so unimportant in the overall scheme of things. He was a few hundred metres away, when I dimmed my lamp. He kept on coming towards me with a dizzying headlight, uncertain what to do – maybe no one has done this to him in the National Highway. A little distance up the road, he too dimmed his lamp and as he passed, nodded towards me. I returned the gesture. I felt good, guess he too felt the same. There are a few things they teach you at home, sometimes its really nice to play around with those. Be good, do good. Life on the highway comes without choosing, how you live it, is definitely a choice.

Every road ends in the capital city, we put our collective heads outside the car and smelt the air. The rain was on leave for days then. By the Napier museum corner, we smelt the blooming spring, the smell of fried peanuts.

Now that the rains were gone, we made an elaborate plan to go up the mountains in September, pitch a tent by the valley where cicadas never cry. They say the “end of all our elaborate plans”, the rains came back with thunder. It seems the state got its highest fall in seventeen years. Forget the mountains, going to the junction was difficult. We sat around in the rain, around the futility of building towers, drinking black tea, around the futility of making plans.
“It is the rain, enjoy it” someone said. When you are not waiting for it to get over, every rain is fun. Zen.

This is where it ends. In our side of the country, we have a train that runs parallel to the National Highway. It travels along the most beautiful places in the world. Hmm, the most beautiful places in the world. And there we are, after a long long time. Little Miss sunshine sits smiling, wondering. I am curious, making noises, wondering in the night. We know where the train is headed, not where we are. I miss it all, the lakes and lagoons that come and go, the sunset, the trains lights, the neon ambiance of the way side stations. It was only us and the immense kindness of the night. Warmth. Our moment in life had just begun.

The night’s kindness, somebody plays a flute somewhere, National highway and us.

O&M’s ad for Madhya Pradesh Tourism - Hindustan ka dil dekho. Makes you feel you want to visit the place and that was perhaps the purpose of the ad. Nice one!

Hindustan ka dil dekho…

Incredible India

P.S : Eklavya is India’s entry for the Oscars. Incredible India

about the name.

there are a few characters you might come across in future posts,one is an abrupt gentleman then a visionary ,a pragmatic pahadi, an ardent commie,a crazy lady,a confused lady and a few more.

pahadi,the mountain man,a direct descendant of yati himself ,calls me lord as my first name is shared by the four headed lord of creation .the other two guys added funda to it after getting mightily pissed off and equally enlightened by my musings,which i share at no extra cost.

another name i liked was ‘psuedo-intellectual’……i really like to call myself intellectual even if its glued to a south travancore swearword.once a tall ,dark,lean friend and me had started a club in the lines of RAND corp,called CIG – Core Intellectual Group.that was to counter our third roomie,who used to make sounds like ‘hooi hooi……kla kla kla’ etc while we were musing on life and death issues like FDI in shipping sector and the like.the club still maintains our member population at two.thats pretty much about the name.

well here i am on all things i really dont care about.